Page 120 of Prince of the Palisades

I watch as tired traditionalism loses to good old “burn shit down, ask questions later.”

Since I was a kid, Centauri’s gardens have been my favorite hiding spot. My private sanctuary. Hundreds of trees, from fig, to palm, to dragon’s blood, to species I haven’t identified yet. Colorful flowers swaying with the breeze. An air soaked in heady sweetness and pristine grass and salty ocean.

I’m sitting on a stone bench in the center. Not far from the tree I’d nap under. Nowhere near whatever’s happening inside the palace.

After Barnard’s removal, Papa excused us so he could talk privately with Mom. Outside the throne room, Annika squeezed me in a long hug. We didn’t say anything, but we both know. There’s been a change inside Centauri’s walls. Inside our family.

Inside me.

I’m not carrying around the weight of what the primeminister said anymore. No longer worried about being Réverie’s perfect prince. Papa hasn’t said what’s next. Whether my time here is permanent. If I’ll ever go back to America.

If I’ll ever get to talk to Reiss again.

But at least my parents finally seeme.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

I barely hear her voice over the splashing ocean behind the palace. Mom hugs herself against the soft wind. She’s abandoned her designer wardrobe for sandals and jeans and an old cardinal USC shirt. It’s rare to see her dressed so casually.

“Can I?” She signals to the empty place next to me.

I scoot over. “You’re the queen.”

“Not right now, Canelé,” she says, flopping down. “I’m just Mom.”

Her shoulder rests against mine. I can’t remember the last time we did this. Sat in a long, comforting silence. Let the high sun wash over our faces. She’s always gone, and I’m always…alone.

“Oh. The staff found this.” She holds up something. “After cleaning up the wreckage of Hurricane Jadon.”

I grimace. Then my gaze lowers to the object: a strip of photos.

The one of me and Reiss from Playland Arcade.

“I figured you didn’t want to lose it,” she whispers.

I hear the smirk in her voice, but I can’t look away from the pictures. Surprised faces. Heart hands. Reiss laughing. Staring into each other’s eyes like that one moment was endless.

A familiar prickle starts behind my lashes.

In every fairy tale I heard as a kid, the prince is the one whosaves the day. Slays the dragon. Finds the glass slipper. Wakes a sleeping beauty with a kiss. In reality, being a prince doesn’t mean happily-ever-after.

There is no magic or luck or heart-stopping kiss at the end of the story.

Happily-ever-afters aren’t for boys like me.

“I loved the pier,” Mom says, wistful. “Walking through Palisades Park. Going to Venice. The aquarium in Long Beach—”

“Wow, Mom, did you spend any time in school?” I tease her.

She tips her head into the sun. “When I first moved to Réverie, it was lonely. Your papa was so busy, even then. I was stuck here. Mémère worried I’d get into trouble if I left the palace.”

“Did you?”

“So much.” Her laugh is like Annika’s—wild, unfiltered.

I brush my thumb over the photo strip. Across Reiss’s pink waves.

“I was careful,” she tells me. “I saw how people here looked at me. Talked about me. I wasn’t one of them. No one in Papa’s family had ever courted an outsider.”

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